"It is singular," he muttered; "the word is /Rome/, and I am
positive that it hasn't been changed. The damp destroys everything. Every
two years or so we are obliged to replace those crutches up there,
otherwise they would all rot away. Be good enough to bring me a taper."
By the light of the candle which Pierre then took from one of the
holders, he at last succeeded in unfastening the brass padlock, which was
covered with /vert-de-gris/. Then, the plate having been raised, the
spring appeared to view. Upon a bed of muddy gravel, in a fissure of the
rock, there was a limpid stream, quite tranquil, but seemingly spreading
over a rather large surface. The Baron explained that it had been
necessary to conduct it to the fountains through pipes coated with
cement; and he even admitted that, behind the piscinas, a large cistern
had been dug in which the water was collected during the night, as
otherwise the small output of the source would not suffice for the daily
requirements.
"Will you taste it?" he suddenly asked. "It is much better here, fresh
from the earth."
Pierre did not answer; he was gazing at that tranquil, innocent water,
which assumed a moire-like golden sheen in the dancing light of the
taper. The falling drops of wax now and again ruffled its surface. And,
as he gazed at it, the young priest pondered upon all the mystery it
brought with it from the distant mountain slopes.
"Come, drink some!" said the Baron, who had already dipped and filled a
glass which was kept there handy.
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